The Purple People Eater

Many thanks to vivacious for the great Header.

The Purple People Eater

By

Sheb Wooley 1958

It amazes me to think I've been waking up every day for over half a century. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but it still comes as a shock to the system. How or why I've survived this long are imponderables, but I'm not going to complain too loudly.

Fifty years ago I was living at my maternal grandparent's house, along with the rest of my family. My parents, or rather my mother I suspect, had decided to return to England from America the year after I was born there. Having no finances or careers they were forced to move in with Mum's parents until their council house application worked its way to the top of the waiting list.

My grandparent's house, now demolished, but affectionately referred to as 384, was a terraced, three storey building, complete with a scullery and an outside toilet. Life was hardly glamorous in those post-war years, but as a young child growing up in England, there was plenty to capture the interest and imagination. It must have been difficult with three generations living under one roof, but as the youngest member of the family I guess I was oblivious to a lot of the problems.

My grandfather was a very tall and well-built man with an extremely thick head of dark hair and spectacles of equal density. He'd been christened Percival, but no one ever spoke of that. He worked as a milkman driving a horse-pulled dray and everyone knew him as Milky Sam. He had a twinkle in his eye, a heart of gold and loved to tease if he could get away with it.

Grandmother was small and round with very fine hair she tried to curl with rags each night, but never quite succeeded. She was elegant, had beautiful legs and a constant tan. What she lacked in stature, she made up for in attitude and heaven help any child who spilt food on her tablecloth or spoke out of turn. Milky Sam came in for his fair amount of grief too if his eyes ever strayed to a pretty girl in the street, or he spent too much time at the Bookmakers.

I don't remember much about my dad at this time. He worked as an aircraft engineer a long way from home and with very few cars on the road during that era spent long hours travelling by public transport to and from his job. He's always been a quiet man or maybe was never allowed to be anything else. I do remember he'd take me to his allotment quite frequently, probably to get me from under the rest of the family's feet. I loved it there; sliding on old hessian sacks down embankments, sampling fresh gooseberries and rhubarb and occasionally forcing a three penny bit out of him to buy sweets. An achievement indeed; to this day my father and money are rarely parted.

My Mum secured a job as an usherette at the local cinema, which meant working nights and I recall I was often sent to the cinema of an evening, again no doubt to give the rest of the family some peace. I blame watching so many films as one reason for the fantasy world I've tended to live in ever since. Some of them were most unsuitable for the tender mind of a child, yet others filled me with delight and fanciful ideas. In fact at that time, I was determined to BE Doris Day when I grew up. But as many of you know; I never did grow up.

My sister was just an alien who slept in the same bedroom as me, although on the odd occasion we'd share comics and listen to the radio together. Most of the time she seemed to be prancing around in huge skirts with layered petticoats and giggling with her friends over secret matters. Not for me; once school was over it was out onto the streets or park to climb trees or join in the latest craze at the time, be it hopscotch or whip and top.

I enjoyed school at the time; I was in love with six-year-old Graham Meakin who chased me round the playground every break and swapped marbles after school. Julia, who I visited last weekend, was my best friend and we rallied for top position in class every year during exams. How sad we now realise, that while we bathed in glory and reaped the praise for being intelligent (no arguments please) poor old Mickey Dripping as we called him, was left to scribble illegible marks on a chalkboard.

In 1958, before my eighth birthday, the long-awaited council house was offered to my family. I recall the excitement of moving, the anticipation of a bedroom of my own, albeit of shoe box proportions and the eagerness to explore the new area and make friends with the local children.

The new abode was a small, terraced house at the bottom of a cul-de-sac not far away from my grandparent's place and only a short bus ride into the city of Nottingham. In those days they were trolley buses; strange to observe recently the return of trams to the city; I guess it's true what goes around, always comes around.

The décor was so old-fashioned, dark and dreary I was convinced the previous tenant had been a witch and was rather apprehensive to begin with. But my parents set about making it a family home and within months it was brightly decorated and furnished.

I was fortunate to make lots of new friends and quite happy to impress them with my lamppost climbing skills and my daring leaps from the top of staircases Simple yet happy days, where it seemed there was snow every winter and long days of sunshine every summer.

My new Junior School was all female and coming from a family where mother definitely dominated and only having one sister, I found the abundance of teenage boys in the neighbourhood rather daunting, but decidedly interesting.

What I never understood at the time was why so many of them befriended me. Why was it they were forever persuading me to provide them with photos of my sister and showed no interest in the ones I offered of myself?

In 1958 my sister became a teenager and whereas I considered her a bossy, soppy creature from another planet who spent far too much time in front of the mirror preening, the local boys were all queuing up at the gate drooling. Little did I realise at the time what an exciting phase in life she was entering and would never have believed for a second it would ever happen to me. I took it for granted I'd be the eternal tomboy on the exterior and my life indoors would be devoted to my huge collection of soft toys.

I remember her thirteenth birthday well. She'd received 78rpm records of Elvis as presents and swooned over the music and photos of her hero all day. It really niggled me and I just couldn't comprehend why she preferred being ‘All Shook Up' by some floppy-haired, pelvis-gyrating Yank crooning about being her ‘Teddy Bear,' when she could have listened to my favourite, profound lyrics of the time relating to a one-eyed, one-horned, flying purple people eater.

Five years later with the emergence of The Beatles and about to be launched into my own teenage years I would understand, but that's a story for another time I hope.

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Sis and I in 1958, accompanied as always by a soft toy. I recall this one was Lopear the rabbit.